Page 32 of Thirty Days in Paris

I resisted the urge to lean myself against him. He was only slight, but his chest seemed like a safe place to me, and the longing made my throat ache. I took a swig of beer to calm myself, not sure what was happening to me. I wasn’t given to urges, but perhaps Paris was unlocking something in me.

The crowds were beginning to jostle as the tempo of the music increased and became wilder and wilder. Someone lurched into me, and straight away Olivier reached out a protective arm and curled it round me, pulling me into him without taking his eyes off the stage. We stood still amidst the melee, feeling each other breathe. I felt like a bottle of shaken champagne, bubbles flying around my veins, ready to explode at any moment, wondering if he could feel my pounding heartbeat. How could I feel so strongly about someone I had only just met?

Coup de foudre, I remembered Nathalie saying. Until now, I hadn’t believed in love at first sight– or, at least, hadn’t believed I would experience it and for someone else to feel the same. Nathalie had seen it between me and Olivier, the mysterious chemistry that connects two people who have no previous knowledge of each other. And she was so thrilled for me. I couldn’t believe that someone could be so kind and selfless. The girls I knew in Worcester would have fought me tooth and claw for him.

On stage, wild trumpets competed with each other, urged on by a ferocious drumbeat and a thunderous bassline, the singer’s voice keening above it all. Olivier took my hand and twirled me round so we could join in the dancing. We were in perfect time, moving to the beat, not taking our eyes away from each other, our feet tapping out the rhythm. Nothing showy, no fancy moves, just our own secret routine that to an outsider would have seemed perfectly rehearsed.

As the band reached a climax and the show came to an end to ecstatic applause, we stopped and looked at each other, smiling, each a little shy suddenly.

Nathalie bounded up and broke the moment, dishevelled and sweaty. She’d definitely had a few more drinks since I’d last seen her.

‘Hey, guys,’ she said. ‘There’s a bunch of us going on to another club. You coming?’

I hesitated, unsure.

‘I think,’ said Olivier, ‘maybe we will have a quiet drink. Just us.’

‘Cool,’ said Nathalie, her eyes bright with glee.

‘Will you be OK?’ I asked, suddenly anxious. It would be irresponsible to let my friend head out into the night alone with a bunch of strangers.

‘Hey, I’ll be fine. I can look after myself, I promise.’ She reached in and gave me a hug, whispering in my ear, ‘He is beautiful. You’re beautiful together. Have fun.’

Olivier and I fetched our coats and came out into the cold night air, hand in hand. We set off down the street, and I panicked for a moment that I didn’t really know where I was. If something went wrong, how would I find my way back? Did I have the courage to go on the Métro on my own, late at night? I swallowed down my panic, not wanting to divulge my doubts.

‘I know a good bar on the Rue des Martyrs,’ he said. ‘We can have a drink, then I’ll walk you back.’

I looked at him, uncertain.

‘Don’t worry. I’m not a crazy person. And Nathalie told me she will kill me if anything happens to you.’

I burst out laughing. ‘She means that,’ I told him.

He smiled ruefully. ‘I know.’

And off we went, back into the mayhem of Pigalle, where he took my arm and steered me firmly through the chaos until the streets became calmer. My feet were starting to rub in the unfamiliar boots, but I didn’t want to complain. We were walking very close to each other, and at some point our fingers became entwined. I asked him about himself, what he was doing in Paris, his hopes and dreams, and he told me he was studying Law at the university.

‘I have to follow my father. I would like to study literature, but there is a job waiting for me.’

‘Did your parents force you?’

He shrugged. ‘I have no choice. It is how it is for me.’

His world was so far away from mine. A world of privilege and wealth. His mother was a dancer – she had given up ballet and was running her own dance school. I imagined her, beautiful, elegant, and I felt sad when I thought about my mum. Small and round and dumpy. I told myself I must not feel ashamed. My parents were good and kind and loved me and that was all that mattered.

We had arrived at the bar that he knew. It was noisy and smoky in the front, but he led me through to a little table at the back and ordered us a glass of wine each. For over an hour, we talked, and I told him about my dream, to work on magazines, to be a journalist, and I was a bit embarrassed when I explained I didn’t do well enough in my exams to get into university.

He gave another dismissive shrug, that shrug I was starting to get used to when French people didn’t agree with what you were saying.

‘It will make you a more interesting person,’ he said. ‘You will not think like everyone else.’

‘Do you think so?’ I hadn’t thought about it like that. I’d felt a failure.

‘You will learn from real people. What to think, what to say, what to read.’

I remembered, when I first saw him, how he had been deep inside a book.

‘That book you were reading in the bar. What was it?’

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